


A Serious Discussion

by wreckingthefinite



Series: 2000 Miles [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Derek, Daddy Kink, Dom Chris Argent, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Feeding Kink, M/M, New Orleans, Sub Lydia Martin, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:04:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6278218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris and Lydia come to New Orleans to visit.  Seeing the dynamics of their relationship raises some questions for Stiles.  There's also a lot of food, Derek wears suspenders, and the boys negotiate some sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the earlier fics in this series, I'm not sure how much sense this one will make for you. 
> 
> This will be a five chapterish arc.
> 
> Oh, and the beginning of this fic makes reference to Derek and a suit, which was basically a [ficlet from a tumblr prompt](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com/post/137477583970/ive-just-finished-your-amazingly-wonderful-fic).

“You have to buy a new suit.”

Derek sighs, giving Stiles his best “you exhaust me” expression. “I do?”

“You know you do!” Stiles scoots across the bed, wriggling until he’s half straddling Derek and tracing the curve of his lower belly, where it rises up from the elastic of his boxer briefs. “You gave your old one to St. John’s.” Stiles grins a little, looking deviant as hell. “Remember, you tried it on for me before you donated it?” 

“I remember you being an insufferable pervert.” 

“I remember you looking like you were going to pop a button and it was hot as fuck.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “So tell me again why I have to buy a new suit?”

“Because Lydia wants to go somewhere fancy for dinner.”

“Does she already have somewhere in mind?” Derek asks, knowing the answer full well. 

“La Vie?” Stiles shrugs. “Never heard of it. But she says it’s jackets preferred and ties required.”

Derek scoots up a little, until he’s partially sitting up against the headboard. The position makes his belly—which is bigger than ever, a beach ball that sits in his lap—protrude further, and Stiles hums happily, pushing it up and bouncing it a little, watching it wobble. “You know I can’t get a suit by tonight, right?”

Stiles frowns. “Why?”

“Because I’m not buying one off the rack.” 

Derek doesn’t live like a millionaire. His apartment is modest, the Camaro is meticulously cared for but not anything excessive, and he doesn’t really spend money on much of anything else besides frequent takeout. But he’ll be damned if he’s buying a suit off the rack. He wouldn’t have done it when he was skinny, and he damn sure isn’t doing it now, when he’s carrying around an extra sixty—more, it’s more than sixty, but he’s not ready to acknowledge that—pounds around his waist. He used to be a hard fit for a suit because of his shoulders. An off the rack suit still won’t fit right, although the problem has shifted. Now any jacket that fits around his tummy will gap in other places unless it’s tailored specifically for him. It’s a little embarrassing, honestly.

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Snob.” He slides up and over, so that he’s straddling Derek completely, rocking his half-hard cock against Derek’s big gut. “But Lyds wants to go and they’re only here this weekend. What are you gonna wear?”

Derek rests his hands on Stiles’ pretty little hipbones, pulling him forward against his tummy. “I’ve got slacks and a shirt,” he says, pretending it’s a great hardship. “It’s summer. No jacket won’t look that bad.”

“With a bowtie instead of a pointy tie?” Stiles grins. “Oh, shit, and _suspenders_. You should totally get suspenders.”

“Suspenders.”

Stiles nods enthusiastically.

“Like for old men and hipsters.”

“Yes!” Stiles puts a hand on either side of Derek’s gut and squeezes a little. “It’ll look so fucking hot. Like—like lingerie, only for your belly.”

Derek snorts. “Jesus Christ, kiddo. You know I’ll have a shirt on under them, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s still gonna look hot. Please?”

Derek moves his hands to Stiles’ shoulders and pushes him down. “Convince me I should, baby.”

Stiles slithers down Derek’s body and mouths at his cock through his briefs, one hand still gripping Derek’s tummy. “Deal.”

*

Stiles is more or less beside himself by the time they get to Chris and Lydia’s hotel room—Derek is hot all the time, but he looks particularly, ridiculously hot tonight. His dress slacks are a size too small, slung low on his hips to make room for the belly he’s carrying around these days, and while his white button-up fits, there’s not an inch of extra room anywhere. The suspenders are the finishing touch, and they might as well be a picture frame around Derek’s tummy, highlighting it for the world to see. 

Stiles tugs at his own collar, more interested in seeing Derek dressed up than having dressed up himself. They certainly fit in the with the hotel’s clientele, though; Lyds, of course, hadn’t booked any regular kind of hotel. Two Magnolias Inn is a converted mansion, built around the turn of the century, and the rooms don’t even have numbers. Chris and Lydia are renting “The Oak Room.” It’s all ridiculously pretentious and Old South to the core, but Stiles has to admit that it’s also kind of cool. The third floor is rumored to be haunted. 

Stiles catches a glimpse of himself and Derek in a big beveled mirror as they ascend the enormous staircase to the second floor—Stiles briefly entertains the idea of faking a Scarlett O’Hara fall to see if Derek will catch him, but he stifles the idea, knowing how unamused Derek will be—and does a bit of a double take. He’s been eyeing Derek all night, but somehow seeing him like this, reflected and standing next to Stiles, drives home exactly how great their size disparity is. Derek, striking with his close-cropped beard and bright eyes, is broad and thick all over, prominent belly giving him just the slightest of arches in his back, affecting his stride in a way that also affects Stiles. In contrast, Stiles looks—and is—slim and almost waifish, all narrow hips and lean muscle, his dress clothes accentuating that fact. Derek had tied his tie for him before they left the apartment, laughing when Stiles had admitted he had no idea how to do it. Told him that such a pretty boy should learn how. Stiles had retorted that he didn’t need to learn because he had Derek. 

They look, weirdly, like they belong together. 

And also like Stiles might call Derek Daddy. But still. They look _matched_. 

*

It takes a moment before Lydia answers the door, but when she does, she promptly wraps Stiles up in a hug, arms thrown around his neck. 

“Look at you guys!” She pulls back, admiring them both. “Look, Chris, they clean up so nice,” she coos.

Chris, lounging in a huge, ornate chair by the window, lifts a wine glass in a salute and offers them an easy grin. “Indeed they do.”

“You too, Lyds,” Stiles says, stepping inside and looking Lydia up and down. Her dress, as per usual, is about five inches shorter than it should be, but it’s a soft, romantic pink that manages to make her look both sophisticated and frightfully young. Her hair is piled up on her head in some complicated knot, and her shoes—nude pumps that Stiles assumes cost more than he makes in a month at Coffee Call—give her a good four additional inches of height. 

She waves a hand at the compliment, the easy dismissal of a girl who is used to being told she’s beautiful, and tugs them inside. 

They have a good hour to kill before their dinner reservations, and they end up sitting on the balcony, watching the sun set over the Garden District. There are four chairs on the balcony, but when they file out to take a seat, Chris lays a hand on Lydia’s hip—just lays it there, the lightest of touches—and Lydia promptly climbs into his lap. Her dress rides up another precarious inch or two, and Chris drops one lazy hand on her pale, pale inner thigh, almost indecently high. He doesn’t acknowledge her in any other way, though, all the while still leaned forward, talking to Derek. 

It’s the most casual display of—Power? Authority? _Ownership?_ \--that Stiles has ever seen, and he can feel his eyes widening. He sneaks a glance over at Derek, but the bastard is just calmly answering Chris’s questions about New Orleans nightlife. 

Stiles tries to listen to the conversation, but then Chris lights a cigar. And smokes it, with Lydia sitting there on his lap. 

Lydia Martin, the girl whom Stiles had once watched verbally eviscerate some unsuspecting partygoer who’d dared to light a cigarette in her house, is sitting on Chris Argent’s lap while he blows cigar smoke all around her. And she doesn’t seem to mind a bit. 

When Chris produces another cigar and offers it to Derek, who lights it and puffs away like smoking cigars in $500 a night hotel suites is part of his every day routine, Stiles can barely contain himself. 

*

Derek doesn’t need to look over at Stiles to know the kid is about to vibrate out of his chair. He can smell it, a mix of tension and interest, overlaid with confusion and a hint of arousal. 

Derek doesn’t always do well figuring out Stiles’ emotions—in general, emotions aren’t Derek’s strong suit, even with the advantage of his werewolf nose. He’s good with action. Good with sex. Good with physical stuff as a whole, really. Figuring out what Stiles is thinking or what he wants, though, is usually a little outside of Derek’s wheelhouse. 

Not today, though. Derek knows, without even looking at Stiles, that the kid is unsure how to respond to the glaringly obvious nature of Chris and Lydia’s relationship—Derek is surprised she’s not calling Chris “Sir” tonight, to be completely honest—and that Stiles is a little miffed that he wasn’t offered a cigar. 

Derek puffs a little bit on his own cigar and exhales not exactly toward, but in the general vicinity of, Stiles, just to jerk his chain a little bit. 

Stiles blinks and wrinkles his nose, and Derek shifts in his chair, resisting the urge to do it again just to enjoy Stiles’ discomfiture. 

Chris obviously assumes that Derek and Stiles have the same sort of dynamic as he and Lydia. It’s not a surprising assumption; Derek is fairly certain that most people who see him with Stiles make similar assumptions. And they’re not wrong, exactly. Derek is in charge in his relationship with Stiles. He does top, and he does call Stiles his baby boy, and the fact that Stiles doesn’t refer to him explicitly as Daddy is more of a question of terminology than power dynamics. 

Actually, Derek thinks he might like it quite a bit if Stiles _did_ call him Daddy, although tonight is probably not the best time to broach that subject. 

Derek leans over slightly and drops a hand onto Stiles’ knees and squeezes. It’s satisfying, how quickly Stiles’ heartrate slows. 

He leans back in his chair, wiggling to try to adjust the waistband of his slacks—which are too fucking tight even though they aren’t that old, damn it—and just enjoys the moment, a good cigar and better wine in hand, Stiles dressed up all slick and sharp beside him. He might as well enjoy the evening while it lasts. Derek isn’t much of a gambler, but he’d bet every bill in his wallet that he and Stiles are going to end up having a Serious Discussion about all of this when they get home tonight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pizza, talking, sex. All good things.

La Vie is as pretentious as Derek expected it to be, all sleek modern lines and a haute cuisine menu that promises, not in so many words, aesthetically pleasing plates and so-so food. Honestly, the restaurant is a little out of place in New Orleans, a city that typically only takes kindly to new things when they’re thoroughly steeped in tradition—particularly where food is concerned. A Cajun fusion restaurant with the same price point would probably be an instant hit, but Derek isn’t so sure this place will still be open in a year. New Orleans has standards.

So does Derek, for that matter. Before they’ve even been seated, he’s considering what carryout he wants to get on the way home, because he can pretty much guarantee this isn’t going to cut it. He considers leaning over and whispering as much to Stiles right now just to get him wound up, telling him he thinks they should stop at Fleur de Lis Pizza on the way home and pick up a large, the one with Andouille sausage and green peppers and all the Cajun spices. Maybe throw in some breadsticks, too. 

When their server appears, a tall, angular beauty of ambiguously hip ethnicity, Derek’s not the least bit surprised that Chris orders Lydia’s drink and then his own. 

It’s funny. A man of Chris’s age ordering for a girl Lydia’s age, a girl who is currently tucked up under his arm and leaning against his shoulder, should be a little troubling, if not completely off-putting. There’s more than two decades between them, and the fact that Lydia looks as if she’d be kneeling beside Chris and eating out of his hand tonight if they could get away with it in public should be disconcerting at best. 

It’s not, though, and that’s probably due to Lydia herself. She looks absolutely confident and supremely pleased with herself, and when Chris orders for her, she raises one perfectly arched eyebrow at the server and gives her a wicked, why-yes-this-is-exactly-what-you-think-it-is grin. 

She’s a peach, really playing it up, and Chris just blandly settles his arm on her shoulder, all easy propriety in contrast to Lydia’s audacity. 

They’re charming as hell. 

When the server turns to Stiles, Derek casually speaks over him and orders them both a glass of pinot noir, just to see what Stiles will do. 

Stiles’ snaps his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth, and Derek smiles when Stiles turns to him with about eight shades of what-the-fuck in his eyes. 

When Derek turns back to look at Chris and Lydia, Chris’s jaw is ticking with amusement, the bastard. 

*

The meal is pretty much exactly what Derek expects: limited portions of mediocre but trendy food arranged in aesthetically appealing designs on weirdly shaped plates. 

The conversation is good, though. Lydia tells charming stories about graduate school, recounting her adventures as a teaching assistant and the college freshmen who would occasionally hit on her. 

“That doesn’t make you nervous, Chris?” Stiles snickers, teasing. “Not afraid she’s gonna run off with some college boy?” 

Chris smiles a little. “No,” he says easily, one hand tangled in Lydia’s hair. “I can’t imagine they’d know what to do with her if they had her.”

Lydia grins, winking ostentatiously across the table at Stiles, and Stiles flushes. Derek smothers a smile in a drink of wine and eats the thin slices of beef that Stiles keeps surreptitiously sliding over onto his plate. Derek knows he’s the recipient of this generosity for two reasons: one, Stiles is pretty much always up for giving Derek food, and two, the beef is rare as hell, and Stiles absolutely cannot handle it. The kid can eat sushi all day, but you give him a lightly seared steak and he’s done. 

Derek has no such compunction. 

“You gave him all your meat,” Lydia says, her eyes sparkling wickedly with the third glass of wine Chris orders for her. “That’s so cute.” 

*

They do end up stopping at Fleur de Lis on the way home to pick up a pizza. Stiles calls in Derek’s order as they’re leaving La Vie, and it’s ready by the time they get there, hot and spicy smelling, the perfect blend of marinara and Cajun seasoning. It’s a large, and the order of breadsticks on top of it are wholly unnecessary—they did just eat, even if it wasn’t exactly a meal of Derek’s usual proportions—but Derek wants them anyway. 

When they get home, they both head straight to the bedroom to change out of their dress clothes. Stiles tosses his own shirt and tie down on the floor, careless as he always is, in favor of blatantly eyefucking Derek as he unsnaps his suspenders and undoes the row of buttons down the front of his shirt. 

“You should keep the suspenders on,” Stiles says, reaching out and running his hand over Derek’s gut, pushing lightly against the bottom curve of it, where it’s widest, where, Derek knows, it probably looks particularly fat today, the way it’s pushed over his tight dress pants. 

Derek rolls his eyes, shucking the shirt and tossing it neatly into the hamper before rolling up the suspenders. “If I wear the suspenders, I have to wear the pants.”

“So wear them!” Stiles says, all enthusiasm. 

“They’re uncomfortable.” 

“Cause they’re too tight on your belly?” Stiles asks helpfully, struggling to slide his slender fingers in between Derek’s protruding tummy and his straining waistband. 

“Too fucking tight everywhere.” Derek unbuttons them with a sigh, and Stiles stares as Derek’s belly rolls forward another inch or two. 

“Looked good to me.”

“Of course they did, kiddo.” 

Stiles grins, wriggling out of his own slacks and leaving them pooled on the floor before tugging on a pair of basketball shorts and nothing else. “Fine, don’t wear ‘em—just come on, your pizza’s gonna get cold.” 

Derek doesn’t argue, just pulls on an old t-shirt—a bit too small, clinging gently to his soft lovehandles and round tummy—and pads out of the room after Stiles. 

*

“Tonight was fun,” Derek tells Stiles when they get settled on the couch, pizza box open on the coffee table, a slice in Derek’s hand. .

Stiles smiles. “Fun” is not an adjective Derek usually applies to social occasions. “Yeah, big guy? Little weird pieces of food and Chris and Lydia being—uh, fucking being themselves, which is weird? That was fun?”

Derek takes a few bites, enjoying the spicy, greasy goodness of a Fleur de Lis pie, heavy with sausage and cheese, before he answers. “Yeah, it was. The food wasn’t great”—he takes another huge bite, as if to punctuate this thought—“but the company was good.”

“So.” Stiles pauses, shifting closer to Derek on the couch, falling silent for a minute as Derek finishes off the first slice and reaches for a second. “Uh—so Chris and Lydia?”

_And there it is._ Derek’s surprised Stiles has managed to wait this long to bring it up. “What about them, kiddo?”

“Umm—what the fuck is going on with them? I thought he was gonna fingerbang her at the hotel while you guys just sat there and _smoked cigars like James fucking Bond_.”

Derek snorts laughter, choking on a mouthful of pizza so badly that he has to set down his slice and clear his throat, take a long drink of soda before he can answer. “He wouldn’t have done that,” he finally says. 

“Dude. His hand was so far up between her legs he almost did. And he orders for her now?” Stiles narrows his eyes. “And you order for me?”

“Do you want to talk about us or Chris and Lydia?”

“Um. Chris and Lydia, first.” 

Derek starts on a new slice of pizza and shrugs. “You knew he was her Dom.”

“I didn’t know they—didn’t know that they did weird shit in public!”

“It wasn’t that weird.”

“She didn’t talk to the fucking waitress!’

“Neither did you.”

“Oh my god, Derek! Yeah, and that was weird.”

“Did you like it?”

Stiles stops, leaning back and giving Derek a funny look. “I don’t—yes. No. I don’t know. It was embarrassing.”

Derek frowns, chewing thoughtfully on a breadstick. “You were embarrassed?” He doesn’t want to embarrass Stiles. There are things he likes about this dynamic, this power exchange between them, but that isn’t part of it, not for Derek. 

Stiles shrugs, looking not exactly uncomfortable but genuinely torn. “I don’t—I don’t know.” He tugs at his hair a little. “Lydia loves that shit, obviously. I don’t—I don’t want all that attention, necessarily? Like Lyds does? Walking around tucked up against Chris like a little china doll, letting him steer her around like she’s practically attached with a leash?” He shakes his head. “I don’t want that.”

Derek smiles a little at Stiles’ description. It’s accurate—Chris had most certainly guided Lydia’s every move tonight. Of course, Lydia had been glowing, alternating between wide-eyed innocent gazes for Chris and wickedly knowing smirks for the rest of the world. “Okay, kiddo. It’s okay not to want that.”

Stiles frowns, looking frustrated. “I might want it a little.”

Derek hides a smile behind another slice of pizza. “That’s okay, too.”

*

By the time Derek is on the last slice of pizza, he’s eating slowly, reclined against the couch, one hand cradling his big belly. He looks sated, lazy and full, eyes hooded and a little dangerous looking—the way he always looks, big and predatory, when he’s sprawled out like this, overfull and relaxed. Stiles loves it.

"You look hot," he says, because it's true.

Derek gives him a look that is fondness masquerading as mild exasperation. “I look like I’m never fitting in those dress pants again.”

Stiles grins. “Probably not, big guy.” He slides over until he’s sprawled out next to Derek and pushes Derek’s t-shirt up and out of the way, runs a hand gently over the top of Derek’s belly, the upper curve of it, where it’s firm and heavy with everything he’s eaten. He moves his hand down, slowly, until he’s grabbing a handful of the softer curve at the bottom, where Derek’s firm beer belly slides into a chubby, wobbly layer of fat. “But they didn’t fit all that well before you ate that pizza.”

Derek rolls his eyes and pushes the last bite into his mouth, shifting his weight and pushing his belly forward a little against Stiles’ hand. “Thanks, kid.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Stiles says, grinning. 

He rubs Derek’s belly for a few minutes, not necessarily in anticipation of sex—although Stiles will be sorely disappointed if they don’t end up doing it later—but just because he can, because Derek is full and fat and his to touch. 

“Do you want to Dom me?” he asks eventually, after Derek is relaxed, no longer squirming with the discomfort of an overly stuffed belly, leaned back with his eyes closed, letting Stiles press and rub against his swollen tummy. 

Derek opens one pretty green eye, looks Stiles over for a moment, and closes it again. “I already do, kiddo.”

Stiles huffs. “You do not.”

Derek doesn’t move other than to push his belly forward a little bit more, a clear indication that Stiles is supposed to continue touching him—which Stiles does. “What do you call it when I tell you how I want you to ride me? Have you cook me dinner, maybe swat your pretty little ass when I go past? Tell you what a good little housewife you are?” 

Stiles feels his cheeks heat up a little at that, and he bites down on his lip to keep from denying that he likes that particular habit—because, of course, Derek would correctly read that denial as further proof of how much Stiles enjoys it. 

“What do you call it when I tell you what a sweet, pretty boy you are when I’m fucking you?” Derek’s voice is lower than usual, a raspy drawl that has Stiles shoving his cock down. “What do you call it when I bend you over the kitchen table and pin your arms and fuck you stupid while you scream, kiddo?”

_Jesus_. “Hot?” 

Derek snorts. “Yeah.”

Stiles wobbles Derek’s belly a little bit, being gentle in deference to the entire pizza, breadsticks, and earlier meal that have all been shoved into it tonight. “Your belly pushes up against my back when you fuck me like that,” he says. 

Derek raises an eyebrow without opening his eyes. 

“Feels so fucking good.”

“Agreed.”

Stiles is silent for a minute. “So you think all that makes you my Dom?”

“I think all that makes us more like Chris and Lydia than you think,” Derek says easily. “And that’s why Chris offered me a cigar and not you.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Chris doesn’t know what kind of sex we have. How would he know?”

Derek’s answering smirk is both irritating and sexy. “He assumed. Correctly.”

Stiles is quiet for a minute. “Do you think Lydia calls him Sir?” he finally asks. He’s seen a fair share of fetish porn with subs referring to their tops as Sir—or even Master, occasionally. It’s always struck him as a little goofy—although he’d managed to rub one out to the video, regardless. Stiles is a pragmatist. 

“Yes.” 

“Do you want to be called Sir?”

“Do you want to call me that?” 

“Not fair answering the question with a question.”

“If I was dying for you to call me Sir, I’d already have told you to do it.”

“Bossy fucking werewolf.”

Derek grins, lazy and slow. “That’s kind of the point.”

*

It’s hours later when they finally fuck, when Derek’s belly isn’t packed so firm and hard that he’s practically pinned to the couch. 

He puts Stiles on his hands and knees, ass up at the edge of the bed, and fucks into him _hard_ , sloppy with lube, messy and wet the way Derek typically prefers. 

“So pretty for me, such a sweet, pretty boy,” he says, voice low and filthy, like it always is when he’s buried inside Stiles. He’s gripping Stiles by the hips, rough and punishing, and Stiles knows he’ll be bruised in the morning. “So small and perfect for me, kiddo.”

Stiles groans, pushing himself back against Derek’s big belly, against Derek’s cock, relishing the way it hurts, the way even now it can feel like Derek’s splitting him apart. 

“Please, please, please,” he chants. 

“Good boy. Good, good boy.” 

*

Derek should have seen it coming, when Stiles rolls over and starts talking about twenty minutes after they’ve turned out the light. 

“So would you ever bottom?”

Derek blinks, taking a second to let the question sink in. “I have,” he says. 

“Did you like it?”

“I don’t prefer it.”

“That’s a lawyer’s answer.”

“I like it occasionally,” Derek says, still hedging. 

“So can I fuck you?”

“Do you want to?”

“Maybe. Are you supposed to fuck your Dom? I may need to call Lydia and ask.”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles.”

“I’ll let you know what she says.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the boys mix it up a little.

Lydia’s cell phone vibrates on the table, and she glances up at Chris, seated on the couch reading the news on his phone. She’s on the floor between his knees, legs tucked up beneath her, doing—well, doing nothing, really. He had put her there half an hour ago, told her to be still, and so that’s what she’s doing. She’s just existing. Leaning her head against his knee, maybe, inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent and cologne on his jeans. Just there, enjoying being next to him, feeling him pet her hair occasionally.

It’s one of her favorite things to do, honestly, and she’s a little irritated that someone’s calling her phone during quiet time. She doesn’t want to have a conversation with anyone right now. 

“Go answer that, baby girl,” Chris says, giving her a “go on” pat on the shoulder. 

She considers arguing, but doesn’t, and goes to grab it. 

_Fucking Stiles_. She thumbs the answer button. “Yes?” 

“Hey, Lyds,” his voice chirps over the line. 

“Hello, Stiles,” she says, sitting back down on the floor at Chris’s feet. “We’ve been back in Beacon Hills two days. What could you possibly want?” 

“Jesus, you know how to make a person feel good when they call.”

“I was having quiet time. Get to it.” 

“Quiet time? What the hell is quiet time? Oh my god, is that a sex thing? You and Chris are doing some weird sex thing? Oh my god, does it involve a ball gag?”

“If it involved a ball gag I would have texted you.” At that, Chris shifts his legs and snorts. 

“But it’s a sex thing?” 

“It’s a thing, and you’re calling in the middle of it. What’s up, Stiles?” 

“Umm. Well. Actually, it’s a question. A—um—a sex, question.”

Lydia perks up a little. “A sex question? Fun! Okay, what it is? Although I gotta tell you, if this is some weird food thing, I got nothing. You guys are adorable, but that’s not my area.”

“No, no, not a food thing—I don’t need advice about that, I got that shit covered.”

“Yeah, Derek certainly looks like you got it covered.”

“You calling my boyfriend fat?” 

“You love it.”

“Jesus, I really do.”

“Get to the point, Stiles. Middle of a thing, remember?”

“Fine, fine. So—uh, Chris is your Dom.” 

Lydia waits, but Stiles doesn’t continue. “Yeah, he is,” she finally says. “And?”

“Uh, so when you guys do it, he’s—uh, he’s in charge? Uh, on top of things, if you will?”

Lydia smiles, examining her manicure and giving Stiles a few beats of silence to squirm. “Yes, Chris is very much _on top_ of things. Why?”

“Uh, well. So is Derek. But, what if—well, so what if I was on top? Would that—ugh, in your professional opinion, how would that work, with a Dom? Not that Derek is my Dom! He’s—“

“Looks like your Daddy to me,” Lydia interrupts, saving herself from more of Stiles’ rambling. “So what, you wanna fuck Derek, but you’re freaking out about it?” She can feel Chris stiffen a little, sitting up and listening, behind her. She peeks over her shoulder and winks, and he gives her a soft, amused smile. It’s an expression that is hers and hers alone; Chris Argent doesn’t look at people like that. Not anyone but her. 

“I might want to,” Stiles says, and she can imagine him fidgeting through the phone. 

“So fuck him, then.”

“It won’t be weird? With the Dom thing? I mean, I’ve never—uh, I’ve never fucked him before.”

“Have you topped before, period?”

Stiles’ answer comes way too quickly. “Of course I have!” 

“How many times?”

Silence. “Like five. Maybe six.”

“So let him talk you through it. He’s your Dom—he’ll tell you how to fuck him, same way he tells you how to do everything else.” 

“You think so?” She can hear the relief in Stiles’ voice. 

“Sure do. Good luck, darling. Let me know how it goes. “ She looks back at Chris again and smiles. “Enjoy fucking Derek!” 

She disconnects and drops the phone, pulling a face at Chris. “So that was good advice, right?” 

Chris gestures for to move up to his lap, and his voice is dry when he answers. “I hope for his sake Derek gives very clear instruction.”

*

It’s another week before Stiles mentions it again, and in true Stiles fashion, he isn’t very smooth about it. 

“So Doms can totally bottom. Lydia says,” he announces one evening when they’re lazing around the apartment. He’s sprawled on the floor with a few books in front of him, ostensibly for research, but he’s mostly just been waiting to bring this up with Derek. 

Derek doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Well thank god Lydia says it’s okay. Otherwise we couldn’t have done it.” 

“I didn’t ask her for _permission_ , Derek. I just kind of—wanted to run it past someone.”

“I can’t believe you actually asked her about it.”

“I didn’t really ask her if Doms could bottom. I just asked her for some advice.” 

“You thought Lydia was the best source of advice you could find on fucking a man?” Derek has finally put his phone away and is looking down at him, his expression clocking in somewhere between fondness and judgment. 

“I thought she was the best source of advice I could find on sex in general,” Stiles says, glaring. “And her advice was totally solid, anyway, so quit being a jerk.”

“Oh yeah, kiddo? What did she say?”

“She said I should just let you talk me through the whole thing and tell me what to do.” 

Derek gives him a funny look. “Have you topped before?” 

“Of course! Why do people keep asking me that?”

Derek stares at him. 

“Okay, like only a few times. Like five. Or six, totally at least six.”

“Did you like it?” 

“Uh, I mean, I stuck my dick inside someone. Yeah, I fucking liked it.”

Derek snorts. “Okay, then. So you liked it, but you’re nervous.”

“Who said I was nervous?” 

“You called Lydia. You’re nervous.”

“Fine. A little.”

Derek quirks up the edge of his mouth in that pretty little half-smile he has. “It’s okay. Don’t have to be nervous.” He pats the couch next to him. “C’mere, kiddo.”

At the sound of Derek’s voice, suddenly an octave or so lower, Stiles realizes that yes, he is nervous, but that the sound of Derek like that, authoritative and confident, helps. 

It’s stupid, that this has sort of become A Thing for Stiles. He doesn’t even know for sure why it is. In all the time they’ve been together now, they’ve never really discussed the issue—Stiles likes to bottom, and Derek likes to top. It had happened organically between them, the same way their entire dynamic had developed. It had just felt right. 

But now, now that he’s considered it, Stiles wants to do this with Derek, too. Wants to see Derek spread out under him, wants to know what it will look like, maybe, for Derek to fall apart beneath him. Wants Derek to trust him to make him feel good, to do this with him. 

*

Derek gets completely naked when they get to the bedroom, and that in itself is a little shocking; as Derek is tugging his boxers down his thick thighs and pulling his t-shirt over his head, Stiles realizes how often Derek leaves at least some of his clothes on when they fuck. Now, with Derek completely nude and Stiles still almost fully dressed, the power differential seems wildly juxtaposed and clear. Derek lies back on the bed, two pillows and his big, strong arms tucked behind his head. He’s beautiful, all soft curves and padded muscle, his big belly and chubby thighs just as masculine as his broad shoulders and wide arms—which, Stiles can’t help but notice, are also getting a little softer than they used to be. 

Derek cocks up one eyebrow, frustratingly cocky and confident the way he always is. “Well?”

Stiles whips his t-shirt off over his head and kicks off his jeans, tugging his boxers down with them. It may be the fastest he’s ever gotten undressed in his life. 

“You looking fucking gorgeous,” Stiles says, climbing onto the bed. 

Derek slides a hand down the side of his belly. “You too, kiddo. Come here.” 

Stiles climbs on top of him, straddling Derek’s thick thighs, and lets Derek pull him down into a kiss. 

They make out, easy and slow, Derek maneuvering and adjusting him continuously, like Stiles is his to control, his to manipulate, in every way. He sucks Stiles’ tongue into his mouth, nips at it, bites and worries at his mouth until Stiles is grinding against him, both of their cocks pushed up against Derek’s belly. 

“Are you ready?” Derek finally asks, pulling back from the kiss and looking up at Stiles, his gaze hooded. 

“Uh—aren’t I supposed to ask you that?” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Get the lube, kiddo.”

Stiles nearly topples over, he reaches for the bedside table so quickly. 

This part, Stiles isn’t nervous about at all. He hasn’t topped much, sure, but he’s pretty much an expert at this—he’s been fingering himself open since he was a teenager, desperately grinding back on his own hand. Shit, a lot of those times, back in high school, it had been Derek he was thinking about as he did it. 

He dumps lube all over his hand, liberal with the application, and it takes his breath away when Derek slides a pillow under his hips, carefully bends his knees and spreads his legs a little. He looks fucking _beautiful_ , eyes dark and intent, round belly made even more prominent by the position he’s in, thick thighs spread open for Stiles. It’s almost too much. 

“You look so good,” he mumbles, tracing his lubed hand down Derek’s balls, behind them, and running the other hand up and down Derek’s lush inner thighs, where his skin was soft and smooth, silky padding over acres of muscle. 

Derek doesn’t respond, just watches him, his expression a weird mix of vulnerability and confidence. Even like this, letting Stiles touch him this way—even like this, Derek mostly just looks powerful, dangerous and in charge, and there’s something heady about it, about touching him this way. 

When he slides his first finger inside, Derek inhales, a sharp little intake of breath that makes Stiles’ cock jump. Derek raises an eyebrow, like he knows exactly how turned on Stiles is, and then he shifts his hips, just a little, just enough that he slides back onto Stiles’ hand just a little more. 

“I’m not made of glass, Stiles.”

“When was the last time you did this, though?” Stiles gives him a look. 

Derek shrugs. “Couple years, probably.”

“You’re practically a virgin, then.” Stiles gives him a little smile and adds a second finger.

By the time he’s three fingers deep, Stiles is panting right along with Derek, trying desperately not to lose control and hump Derek’s leg. 

“C’mere, kiddo,” Derek finally says, reaching out and pulling Stiles up until Stiles is hovering over him, Derek’s legs spread for him, Derek laid out beneath him like a gift. 

Derek grabs the lube from the bed where Stiles abandoned it and flips the cap open, dumping some in his palm and slicking Stiles’ cock. He seems to know that Stiles is already about to shatter, so he doesn’t make it sexy, just a few perfunctory slides. 

“Come here,” he repeats, pulling Stiles down this time till their lips meet, till Stiles is stretched out above him, cock lined up against his entrance. 

“Do it,” he says, pulling out of the kiss a moment later. “Put your cock inside me.” 

It feels fucking amazing. Even just that first, slow inch, pushing inside Derek’s body, feeling his heat, being surrounded by it. It’s intense, and Stiles can’t even really focus on Derek’s reactions; all he can do is breathe, try to control himself. 

“Good, that’s good.” Derek’s voice is low, a little raspy, but it’s steady and calm. “A little more, kiddo, you’re okay.” 

Derek keeps it up, gentle praise and direction, like Stiles is performing some really complicated procedure, until Stiles is fully seated inside him, buried to the hilt against Derek’s body. 

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles blurts out. “God, you feel good.” 

Before he even starts to move, he puts a hand on Derek’s belly, slides it over until he’s grasping the flesh at Derek’s side, gripping his love handle for dear life when he finally starts to rock into him. 

Derek has a big hand on either of Stiles’ arms, steadying him, and he keeps up a steady stream of words, mostly nonsense, just a stream of “yes, sweetheart, that’s so good, right there,” and it makes Stiles feel so good, so safe.

“Like that,” Derek says, shifting his own hips a little bit and then adjusting Stiles, pulling him a little closer, changing the angle. “Fuck—yes, like that.”

It’s almost too much, fucking into Derek, watching how his belly bounces with each stroke, his big, perfect body underneath Stiles, his thighs against Stiles’ ribs, one of his big hands on Stiles’ bicep, the other on his cock—even now, ostensibly on top, all Stiles can think is that he’s all wrapped up in Derek, that Derek is everywhere. 

“I’m—fuck, Derek, fuck, I’m gonna—gonna come—“

“Come. Do it, baby,” Derek says, his voice so low it’s almost distorted now, just an octave away from a growl—and that’s what does it, really, that’s what puts Stiles over the edge. 

Derek’s voice washes over him as he comes—“good, yes, sweetheart, that’s such a good boy”—and his orgasm hits so hard, so fast, that Stiles doesn’t even realize that Derek strokes himself to orgasm, too, until he feels the warmth of it hit his chest, his belly. 

“Oh, _fuck_.” It’s the most he can articulate, and Derek just laughs, a little breathlessly, and tugs him down to lie on his chest, semen sticky between them. 

*

The next morning, Derek wakes up before Stiles, slipping out of bed without waking him and heading for the kitchen. He comes back with a tray of bagels, cream cheese, and steaming cups of coffee. He’d considered actually cooking, but it hadn’t seemed worth it; all he really wants is to crawl back in bed with his boy. 

Stiles is partially awake when he returns, and he grins, wide and unselfconscious, when he sees the breakfast tray. “You brought breakfast in bed? Holy shit, this must be what it’s like to be you!” His smile gets impossibly wider, and he makes a production of raising his arms over his head in a long, lazy stretch, oozing over-the-top satisfaction. “Fucked my hot boyfriend last night, and now he brings me breakfast. Look at me, I’m Derek Hale!” 

Derek clenches his jaw, trying not to smile and failing. “You talk too much to be Derek Hale. “

“I’m a healthy, sensitive Derek, in touch with my emotions and comfortable expressing them,” Stiles says, making grabby hands at the coffee cup until Derek passes it over. 

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Derek says.

“He turned over a new leaf.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and climbs back into bed, balancing the tray of bagels on his lap. “Want?”

Stiles smiles again, all sunny effervescence. “Not yet. You eat them,” he says, pushing the tray toward Derek. 

“I thought you were Derek Hale,” Derek says, reaching out and smearing cream cheese generously over a bagel half. “I heard he wasn’t missing any meals lately.”

“Ugh, you got me.” Stiles reaches over, patting the curve of Derek’s tummy. “I can’t do what you do, big guy.” 

“No,” Derek agrees. “You did a pretty good job last night, though.” He leans over, dropping a kiss on Stiles’ forehead. He doesn’t make that kind of gesture often; he’s learned, over time, to give Stiles physical contact, but casual kisses are still mostly out of his repertoire. 

Stiles leans over, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Last night was fun.” He’s quiet for a minute, and then he turns to face Derek. “I think we should celebrate our anniversary with some of the same-old-same-old, though.”

Derek gives him a funny look. “We have an anniversary?”

“Yes, you asshole. The anniversary of the night you picked me up at the airport last summer. July 19.” 

“But we didn’t have sex then. Or—or anything.”

“Yes, but I wanted you really bad,” Stiles says. “It counts.”

Derek snorts. “Okay, kiddo. So our anniversary is—what? Next week?”

“Yes. You should probably plan something.” 

“Good to know.” 

“You’re welcome.” Stiles grins and hands him another bagel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anniversaries are for l̶o̶v̶e̶r̶s̶ ̶ kink negotiation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags for this one--or go check out the end notes for a spoiler-y explanation.
> 
> And, as always, thanks so much for reading and commenting. You guys are wonderful. This is the last chapter, but come find me on [tumblr](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com) if you like!

Stiles doesn’t actually expect Derek to plan anything for their anniversary.

For one thing, it’s not _really_ an anniversary of anything except Derek picking Stiles up at the airport. For another, Derek isn’t exactly known for romantic overtures. More like grudging but sincere affection. 

So when Stiles wakes up on July 19, he doesn’t even remember at first that it’s their Stiles-proclaimed anniversary. He just rolls over and slides up against Derek’s big body because he wants to.

Derek doesn’t wake up by degrees. It’s a wolf thing, probably; the moment Stiles moves a muscle, ever, Derek is fully awake. Stiles can tell because his breathing changes, the set of his body changes; everything tenses, even if Derek doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, wriggling until he’s under Derek’s arm, tucked up against him. 

“Morning, kiddo.” Derek’s voice isn’t all that deep, regularly, but it’s scratchy and low in the mornings, and it always makes Stiles want to rub up against him—so he does. 

Derek doesn’t say a word, just rolls over, pinning Stiles under him and catching both of Stiles’ wrists in one big hand. Stiles thinks—hopes—for a moment that he won’t even bother with lube, that he’ll just pin him down and fuck him, hard and demanding. They’d fucked right before they fell asleep the night before, so it wouldn’t be impossible. Derek could just shove his way inside and take what he wanted—

But, of course, he doesn’t. At the last second, he reaches over and grabs lube, and Stiles isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. He doesn’t have long to consider it, anyway, before Derek’s slicked his cock and tossed the tube aside in order to arrange Stiles exactly as he wants, propping his legs up on Derek’s broad shoulders, leaning forward until Stiles is nearly bent in half, until Stiles can’t move at all except to thrust against Derek’s big belly. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Derek mumbles, meaningless comforting noises as he lines up and shoves his cock inside Stiles, without any preamble or much finesse. 

Stiles, pinned completely under him, legs on Derek’s shoulders, wrists caught above his head, comes shamelessly quickly. 

*

Derek’s not sure what the proper protocol for an anniversary is, but he suspects that, Stiles being Stiles, he could do anything and the kid would act like it was the best thing he’d ever seen. 

Even so, he wants to get this right for Stiles—Stiles, who could be tearing up the Crescent City with someone his own age, someone who would grind up on him in the gay bars in the Quarter with all the other pretty boys, someone with six pack abs and an easy smile. Stiles who, for reasons that are not entirely clear, chooses Derek. Derek who has a decade on Stiles and no night life to speak of, Derek who would rather take a punch to the jaw than go dancing, Derek who hides his smile more often than not and has had to go up two jeans sizes in the past year. 

Stiles chooses him, so this is important. 

Thing is, Derek isn’t a grand gesture kind of guy. There are a lot of theoretically romantic places in New Orleans. Plenty of lavish places to have a drink or get a meal, streetcars to ride through historic neighborhoods, pretty places to take a walk with a lover. Derek doesn’t want to do any of those things, though. Stiles doesn’t seem to give a shit about Derek’s money, and if Derek did take him somewhere fancy, he would undoubtedly be more excited about the prospect of Derek in menswear than the actual ambiance of the place. In the last week or so, he’d moved on from suspenders to formalwear vests, and had taken to texting Derek photos of various examples of vests during his shifts at Coffee Call, typically accompanied with suggestive emojis. Thus far, Derek has resisted—seriously, clothing that clings to his belly _by its very design_ is not ideal, no matter what filthy scenario Stiles is imagining—and taking Stiles somewhere formal for dinner will just reignite the conversation. So no, that’s out.

In the end, he texts Malia. 

_It’s our anniversary and I need to do something nice with Stiles. Not out to dinner. What?_

Her answer is, of course, both useful and supremely annoying. _Not dinner? Isn’t food like the third person in your relationship?_

Derek considers. She’s obnoxious, and endearing, and not wrong. 

_I don’t want to do the whole clichéd fancy dinner thing._

_So you cook for him. It’ll be sweet and you can stuff yourself the way he likes. It’ll be cute. Cooking is romantic._

Derek stares at his phone. Fucking Malia. 

_OMFG_ , he types out. It’s a phrase he picked up from Stiles, and it’s a useful expression. 

_Don’t be fussy. Everyone knows. It’s okay. Cook for him. He’ll love it._

_Maybe_ , Derek writes back. 

It _is_ a good idea, though. 

*

He doesn’t mention the anniversary when they go out to lunch, lingering over spicy bowls of vindaloo and creamy saag, basket after basket of hot, fresh naan and pretty little glass dishes of chutney. 

He doesn’t mention their anniversary that afternoon, when they wander down Magazine Street in the heat of the day, when the streets are lazy and bright. 

He doesn’t mention their anniversary when they get snowballs from their favorite uptown stand, sitting in the shade and watching the city drift past while they eat rapidly melting shaved ice, the way you can only get it in New Orleans. Stiles gets strawberry cheesecake, and the shaved ice is packed around a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Derek’s is praline flavored—and his includes not just the obligatory ice cream scoop, but is also drizzled with half and half. 

He also doesn’t mention their anniversary when Stiles hands over his snowball before he’s even halfway finished, and Derek obligingly eats it as well as his own. 

As they’re tossing their empty cups into the trash, a pair of tourists—their sensible sneakers give them away—stop and ask for directions. “Excuse me, would either of you know how to get to, um, to Tchopitoulas?” She pronounces it Tuh- _choop_ -it-uh-luhs, and Derek winces. 

“It’s Chop-it- _too_ -las,” Stiles says easily, giving them a sweet smile and pointing down the street. His directions are clean and clear, given like a local, and it makes Derek smile a little, despite his disdain for tourists as a rule. 

“Thank you, honey,” the woman says, already latching onto her husband’s arm and dragging him in the direction Stiles had pointed them. “You and your—your fella—have a nice day.” 

“It’s our anniversary,” Stiles chirps, giving her a sunny smile and then cutting his eyes to Derek, as if checking to see how unnecessary Derek found that tidbit of information. 

“Oh!” The woman shakes her head and smiles. “You boys can do anything nowadays, can’t you?” Derek can feel his jaw start to tick, but the woman barrels on, her smile so genuine that he can’t really work up much of a desire to claw her face. “That’s so sweet, isn’t it, Bill?” 

Bill looks from his wife to Derek to Stiles and nods politely. “Real sweet.” 

She fixes her gaze on Derek directly. “You take this young man of yours somewhere special tonight, you hear?” And before Derek can dredge up a response, she tugs Bill down the sidewalk, already pointing out this-or-that for him to look at. 

“You hear that?” Stiles grins at him. “You gotta take your young man somewhere special tonight.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “I was thinking I’d take my boy home and cook dinner for him, actually. That good enough for you? _We can do anything nowadays_ , you know. “

*

On the way back to the apartment, Derek steers Stiles into Rouse’s. 

“Just a couple of things,” he says, his hand at the small of Stiles’ back as they step inside the automatic doors and into the icy blast of the store’s air conditioning. 

“Whatcha making?”

Derek doesn’t really answer, just throws items into their basket. Shrimp, penne, cream, butter. A thick loaf of French bread, a $10 carton of the fancy hipster ice cream he likes. 

Stiles gives him a stupid, endearing grin as they’re checking out. “You’re like, cooking, cooking.”

“Maybe.”

*

When Stiles pokes his head into the kitchen that evening, Derek is standing at the stove, stirring something and looking so devastatingly sexy it about that it takes Stiles’ breath away. 

Derek’s wearing basketball shirts and a white undershirt, barefoot and relaxed, a wooden spoon in one hand and a bottle of homebrew in the other. His clothes are about half a size too tight—not enough to be inappropriate but just enough to cling to every extra ounce that pads his torso—and he looks _big_ , thick all over, standing sideways so that his big belly doesn’t brush the stove while he works. 

“That smells fucking awesome.” Stiles pads in and peers into the saucepan. “Oh shit, is that the tomato basil sauce you do? That’s why you got the shrimp?”

Derek nods, one dimple showing for a nanosecond or so through the scruff on his cheeks. 

“I bet you don’t remember the first time you made this for me,” Stiles says, wrapping his arms around Derek’s waist and shamelessly cupping the lower curve of his gut. 

“I bet I do,” Derek says quietly. 

Stiles blinks. Derek’s tone is—proud of himself? Nervous? He’s pretty good at reading Derek’s moods, mostly because Derek is so bad at sharing them that Stiles has to figure them out on his own, but this one is a little convoluted. “Okay, big guy—when?”

“Full moon. First night we slept together. We got drunk and watched the LSU opener. You fed me ice cream.”

Stiles tugs Derek around until they’re facing. “You remember all that?” He can feel a grin spreading across his face. 

“Thought it would be a good anniversary meal.”

Stiles feels his smile widen impossibly. “You already had it planned. Before I said something to those tourists.” 

“Yup.”

“You remembered.”

“Yup. You disappointed we’re not out somewhere fancy?” Derek throws a serious glance over his shoulder as he turns back toward the stove. “It’s not too late. I’ll go squeeze into those fucking dress pants and those goddamn suspenders if you really want.” 

“NO. I mean—no. This is perfect.” Stiles bounces, dropping a few sloppy kisses on Derek’s cheek. “You big romantic jerk! Look at you!”

“You told me I needed to plan something,” Derek says dryly. 

“Yeah but this is so _sweet_! Holy shit, do you remember that night? Oh my god, you let me feed you ice cream and I thought I was gonna prematurely ejaculate all over your belly.” 

“Smooth, kiddo,” Derek says, moving away from the stove and pulling a head of lettuce from the fridge, Stiles trailing along behind him. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Look who’s talking. Your move was to eat your weight in pasta and get me drunk.“

“It worked.”

“Yeah, but I’m easy.”

*

“Can you believe it’s been a year?” Stiles asks later, when he’s done eating and Derek’s taken his fourth plate into the living room and sprawled out on the couch, leaning back far enough that he can rest it on the curve of his big belly. 

“Not really, no.”

Stiles is sitting on the floor next to the sofa, and he pulls himself up to his knees and reaches out, patting the side of Derek’s full tummy. “How much did you weigh when I got here?”

“Maybe 250.”

Stiles nods, petting Derek’s belly a little. “And now?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Holy shit, yes.” 

Derek snorts. “281, kiddo. You perverse little shit.”

Stiles can actually feel his eyes glaze over. “Fuck, that’s hot.”

“Uh huh.” Derek takes the last bite and hands his plate to Stiles. “Run and put this in the sink and get that ice cream, yeah?”

*

Derek’s full, uncomfortably so, when they finally make it back to the bedroom. He’d eaten a _lot_ , partly because it was good, partly because he was happy, partly because it made Stiles happy. Now, though, all wants is to grab his boy and fuck the life out of him, and he’s almost too full to do it. 

He doesn’t even have to bother saying anything, or apologize that he’d eaten far too much, or explain that eating half a carton of ice cream hadn’t been a great idea, at least in terms of his ability to catch his breath. Stiles just climbs up on him, straddling his thighs, and starts rubbing on his belly. “You look so good.”

Derek huffs and shifts his weight a little, pushing his gut forward into Stiles’ hands. “I look like I swallowed a beach ball.”

Stiles grins at him, charmingly deviant, and lightly jostles his tummy. “Right? Super hot.” 

Later, when Derek’s recovered enough to move, he works Stiles open slowly. Stiles rides his fingers until he’s desperate, snapping his hips and wailing, and Derek finally takes pity on him and directs him to all fours. “Head down, kiddo. Ass up. Good, just like that.” 

It’s a degrading position, maybe, Stiles’ face shoved down into the pillow, his pert little ass up in the air. Stiles doesn’t act degraded, though. He acts like he’s panting for it, like nothing could please him more than letting Derek do whatever the fuck he wants. So Derek fucks into him _slowly_ , deep and careful. 

“That’s it, baby boy, so good for me.” He keeps it up, a stream of dirty praise, and Stiles keens and pants, pretty and debauched and perfect under Derek. 

Derek grips the back of his neck, holding him in place, enjoying the absolutely beautiful arch of Stiles’ back, the lean, almost fragile feeling of his neck under Derek’s hand, when Stiles whispers, “Daddy, please.”

It’s almost enough of a surprise that Derek stops moving; his hips stutter a bit but he holds onto the rhythm, mostly out of sheer will. The last thing he wants is to send the message that there’s something wrong with what Stiles said. There’s not. Not a goddamn thing wrong with it. It’s a fucking gift. 

“Fuck, kiddo, what did you just say? Say it again, baby, say it.” Derek knows he’s pushing, knows that Stiles is probably _thisclose_ to crying if he isn’t already in tears, but he can’t help it. He’s wanted this from Stiles—has had it in every way except that actual, verbal confirmation—for so long. 

“I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—just, just, fuck.” Stiles is almost certainly crying; Derek can hear it in his voice, and he can smell the salt of fresh tears. “Please, Derek, please—“

“No,” Derek says, letting his voice drop into a register that is just slightly lower than a human should, strictly speaking, be able to achieve. It’s not exactly a growl, but it’s close. He rolls his hips slow and steady. “No, baby. Say it.”

Stiles gasps out a sob, and he smells so much like arousal and shame that Derek very nearly comes on the spot. 

“Say it. Call me daddy and tell me what you want.”

Hearing the word from Derek seems to be the push that Stiles needs, and his pants turn into cries. “Oh, _god_ , Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, please, please, oh, shit, Derek, fuck me, please!”

“That’s so good, kiddo. That’s so good for me, that’s just what I wanted.”

Before Derek can give him any encouragement—let alone permission—Stiles wails and comes, hard and fast, his body clenching around Derek so much that it’s nearly painful. 

When Derek comes a moment later, fucking into Stiles with a rough, proprietary pleasure, Stiles whispers the word one more time, breathing it out on a sigh that Derek suspects he wouldn’t have heard if he were human. 

*

“So on a scale of one to ten, how weird was that?” Stiles asks later, when they’re sprawled naked on top of the sheets, still damp from the shower. 

Derek gives Stiles a look and drains his beer. Stiles wordlessly hands over his own bottle, a strawberry Abita which Derek shrugs and accepts. “What, you finally saying what we’ve been doing for a year now?”

Stiles gives him a scandalized look. “You have not been—we have not—this hasn’t been going on for a year!” 

“How long have you been jerking off about it, though?”

Stiles looks chagrined. “Not the _whole_ year.”

“’Course not,” Derek agrees easily, setting his beer on the side table and rolling onto his side to face Stiles. His belly—bloated with dinner and ice cream and beer—sits on the mattress beside him, looking unreasonably big, and he slides a hand over it, feeling a little self-conscious, a little satisfied. “But a while now, right?”

Stiles flushes, reaching out to prod at Derek’s belly like he’s trying to find a distraction. 

“Stiles. It’s okay.” Derek reaches out and catches his chin, making Stiles look at him. “I want you to do it. Want you to call me daddy.”

Stiles’ pupils dilate a little bit, just at the word, and Derek flares his nostrils, appreciating the sticky sweet smell of arousal that floods the room. 

“We have really fucking weird sex,” Stiles finally says, laughing a little and jiggling Derek’s tummy. 

“You like it, though.”

“Jesus, yes.” Stiles grins, squirming closer to Derek, until he’s resting his head on Derek’s broad, pudge-over-muscle chest. “I like it so much.”

“Me too, kiddo.”

“A year ago right now we were probably fucking for the first time,” Stiles says, his voice muffled a little, his mouth moving lazily over Derek’s chubby pec. 

“Nah, I’m sure you were still shaking like a leaf and trying to feed me ice cream without spilling it.”

“Oh my god, I was nervous! And you took the fucking spoon out of my hand and did it yourself!” 

“Could’ve starved to death, waiting on you.”

“You don’t look like you’re starving,” Stiles says, grinning and patting at Derek’s tummy again, throwing one leg over Derek’s thick thighs. 

“You got better,” Derek says grudgingly.

“Thirty pounds better, I’d say,” Stiles says, pulling himself up until he’s straddling Derek and then leaning down to kiss him. “Happy anniversary, Derek.”

“Happy anniversary, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler warning: Stiles refers to Derek explicitly as daddy. It is all safe, sane, consensual, and probably not even the least bit surprising, given the trajectory of this fic for the last 50K words. However, I know it's a hard no for a couple of you, so I wanted to warn appropriately for it.


End file.
